


sticking (it) to the minors

by youcouldmakealife



Series: in taking it apart [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck everything,” Rogers says, raising his beer.</p><p>Mike will drink to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sticking (it) to the minors

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr for this and _you can make a life_ , among other works in this sprawling universe is [here](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks to Clo, as always!
> 
> Posting may slow down a touch because I am going from house with fellow fandomer to hostel with...hostelers, so. Fair warning!

Liam is a baby about injuries. He’s fine with the doctors, the team, brushes it off like it’s nothing, and then follows Mike around his house asking whether it’s time for more painkillers or not, whining about his stupid splint getting in the stupid way, and how he can’t breathe through his nose and his life is terrible.

When Mike tells him he’s broken his nose three times, and that Liam is a fucking drama queen, it shuts him up for about an hour before he’s back on about how tragic his entire existence is.

Mike has no sympathy. Mike had to send Liam home the night before just so he could actually sleep in his own fucking bed without worrying that he was going to attack Liam’s nose in the night.

The team’s down in Dallas, a quick jaunt, and Mike has to deal with even more Liam than usual, what with Mike’s suspension and Liam’s place on the injured reserve. They don’t leave the house once while the Oilers are away, and Liam puts on pants for a total of five minutes when he’s on delivery guy duty. Other than that, he’s become a nudist, pretty much.

Mike’s had worse suspensions.

Once the swelling goes down a bit and Liam looks less like a startled raccoon, Mike drops the no-sex policy that he’d enforced since Liam’s face met glass (and that had Liam protested in a hilariously nasal voice), and the last day before they have to be in practice, a no contact jersey on Liam like a beacon, is primarily spent in bed. Liam can breathe through his nose now, but Mike won’t kiss him, no matter how loudly he complains, instead pays attention to things he’d ordinarily skip over--the way his sides are slightly ticklish when Mike’s mouth brushes over them, though he tries to hide it. The soft insides of his thighs, the way they hold bruises, biting kisses, just long enough that Mike can see his mark all over him. The way he shakes every time Mike sucks a kiss against that spot at the base of his throat.

He takes his time because there’s no reason not to; he’s not eighteen, he isn’t petrified at the thought of delaying gratification, and Liam is cursing Mike’s parenthood and the size of his cock by the time Mike finally gets his mouth around him, sucks him off as slow and easy as he’d done everything else, even when Liam gets his hands in Mike’s hair, tries to make him move. After, Liam’s sated and wrecked, his skin a map of where Mike’s been, what he’s spent his time on, blotchy red from sucking bites and beard burn. He looks like Mike’s. 

It’ll fade.

They go to sleep sore in slightly better ways, Liam tucked up against Mike’s chest in what he’s deemed the safest position, while Mike drapes an arm around his waist, mouth against the vulnerable nape of his neck. 

*

When Mike wakes up early to banging on the door, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to expect. He nudges Liam off him, gentle at first, then harder when he remains stubborn deadweight, pads downstairs still rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

Darryl Rogers is a nice guy. A good old Alberta boy who still eats dinner with his parents once a week, is constantly thinking up surprises for his fiance on trips while everyone around mocks him relentlessly for it, and takes in rookies and trade-ins like he’s running an orphanage.

Rogers was named a teddy bear by someone, and it stuck, because he’s pretty squishy, but he’s still big, broad, looks almost more like a linebacker than a hockey player, is a defenseman you don’t want to go through, because you may just bounce off him.

Rogers is also standing on his front step and currently looking like he’s going to murder Mike.

Mike considers closing the door on him and just dealing with this later, when he’s wearing pants, and has been awake more than two minutes, and also maybe after he shoves Liam out his back door and can pretend he isn’t harboring a teen delinquent.

Instead he says, “hi,” cautiously, making sure he doesn’t open the door more than a crack, because it’d be just his fucking luck if Liam decided that was the moment to wake up.

“Where is he?” Rogers asks.

“...who?” Mike tries.

“I will go through you, Brouwer,” Rogers says, so Mike meekly gets out of his way. He knows how to pick his battles, and Rogers, on a protective tear, is not something he wants to deal with at seven in the morning. Or ever.

Mike hears footsteps, and he prays to every deity he can think of that Liam put on boxers. Please. He’ll do anything.

“Mike?” Liam says, rubbing his eyes and padding into the hall, in boxers and a shirt of Mike’s, thank _god_. Though no one’s going to be mistaking that for Liam’s shirt, it’s better than the alternative. Mike doesn’t want to gamble on whether the marks he left have faded. Liam stops short when he sees Rogers. “Shit,” he says, succinct.

“Come on,” Rogers says. “We need to talk.”

“Did you _stalk_ me?” Liam asks. “Are you serious? I’m a fucking adult!”

“Yeah, because you’re clearly making great adult decisions here,” Rogers says, sarcastic.

Mike is vaguely offended. He may be a shitty decision, but it’s not buddies to _say_ so.

“Get dressed,” Rogers says.

“Fuck you,” Liam says, but retreats to Mike’s bedroom, where he is hopefully getting dressed, because Mike really needs Rogers to leave his house so he can properly evaluate just how fucked he is. In the meantime, it’s just him and Rogers in the hallway, Rogers stone faced and Mike feeling more and more uncomfortable with the fact he’s just wearing briefs and possibly has a bite mark on his chest. He’s not going to look down to confirm that, because if it’s there, he’s sure as hell not going to bring any attention to it.

There’s pretty much nothing he can say, unless he wants to go the, “hah, teenagers, am I right?” route, but he suspects that Rogers might actually hit him if he reminds him of the fact that he’s been busy despoiling his rookie. His teenage rookie. 

God, Mike is so fucked right now.

Liam comes out of Mike’s room, back in yesterday’s clothes and spitting mad, and Mike wonders if it’s too late to say that it’s not what it looks like, and claim they were just having a sleepover. Guys sleep over at each other’s places all the time. Maybe not in the same room, and maybe not stripped down to their skivvies, but seriously.

Liam’s mutinous expression tells Mike it is, in fact, too late, because the fucking brat is probably going to tell Rogers incriminating details purely to piss him off, now.

When they leave, Rogers first, and then Liam, who keeps sending Mike looks that Mike thinks are supposed to be apologetic, Mike gratefully closes the door behind him. Practice is in three hours, so it’s a stay of execution at most, and Liam is probably going to make the situation considerably worse, because he’s gifted at that, but still. Mike has three hours to consider escape plans. He is currently leaning towards running to Minnesota and hiding in his mother’s house. Rogers wouldn’t kill a man in front of his mother, he’s too nice for that.

The only reason Mike summons up the will to go to practice is because it’s not optional, and Mulligan scares him more than Rogers does. Mulligan _would_ hunt Mike down in Minnesota, and he _would_ kill him in front of his mother, so he makes the logical choice, bites the bullet, and goes.

Liam’s sullen and quiet on the ice, which is uncharacteristic enough that everyone notices, and Mulligan actually asks him if he’s suffering any complications. Mulligan sounds _concerned_. That’s strange enough for Mike to notice this despite doing his level best to avoid both Liam and Rogers. He can’t put this off forever, he knows that, but he can delay with the best of them.

The delay ends when Rogers corners him in the locker room while Mike’s half out of his gear. Mike looks around to make sure there are people around, reassures himself that Rogers would not kill him in front of teammates.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Rogers huffs.

Rogers is a smart guy. Mike likes him. Shame it’s probably not mutual, right now.

Rogers waits for him to finish getting changed, close enough that Mike can’t make an escape, far enough that it isn’t _that_ weird. Other than the fixed stare. That’s pretty fucking weird. 

“Do you know what you’re doing, here?” Rogers asks, when Mike’s in street clothes. 

“No,” Mike says, completely honest. “I have no fucking clue.”

For some reason that seems to be the right answer. 

“You’re getting a drink with me,” Rogers says. It’s early afternoon, but Mike thinks they both probably need a drink right now, and frankly now’s not the time to argue with him.

They take separate cars, so theoretically Mike could just not show up, but Rogers is being more understanding than he needs to be, more understanding than just about anyone would be, so Mike shows up, a minute before him, orders them both a beer, resists draining his because he thinks he needs to be sober for this conversation, unpleasant as the thought is.

Rogers sits down across from him, just stares. It shouldn’t be as effective as it is, he has just about the friendliest face in the world, but it works. Mike drops his eyes to the table.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Rogers asks.

“Yes,” Mike says, without hesitation. “Pretty much.”

“How long has this been going on?” Rogers asks.

Mike hesitates. There’s no way Rogers hasn’t asked Liam the same thing, and no way of knowing whether or not Liam lied. Mike figures it’s going to have to be the truth. “A few months,” he says. 

Rogers doesn’t react, so Liam told him the truth. The kid’s naive. Mike has got to break him of that habit.

Rogers lays out the situation. It’s all shit Mike knows: he’s too old for him, Liam’s young, idealistic, has turned it into something else in his head. Mike’s a dick and Liam’s going to get hurt and it’s going to be his fault. He can’t disagree. There’s nothing to argue.

“I’m just trying to look out for Fitzy,” Rogers says.

“I know you are,” Mike says. “I _like_ that you are.”

Rogers is quiet for a minute.

“You’re really fucked, huh,” he says finally.

“I really am,” Mike says miserably.

“The kid thinks he’s in love with you,” Rogers says.

Mike exhales, slow. “He’ll get over it,” he says. 

Rogers takes a sip of beer. “If he’s not coming home one of you is going to tell me. He’s shit at remembering.”

Mike nods.

“Break his heart and I will kick your ass,” Rogers warns.

Mike nods again.

“Fuck everything,” Rogers says, raising his beer.

Mike will drink to that.

*

When he gets home, Liam’s sitting on his front step.

“Would have thought you’d have figured out how to break in by now,” Mike says.

Liam looks at him miserably. “What did Roge say?”

“You’re not grounded,” Mike says. “Your dad didn’t take the car away.”

“Mike,” Liam huffs.

“It’s fine,” Mike says. “He’s fine. Mostly. He hates me a little right now, but you can go home without him killing you.”

“Why can’t I just stay with you?” Liam whines.

Mike stares at him. “Because I’m not a fucking lunatic,” Mike says. “And I would become one if I had to deal with you all the fucking time.”

“I’m here all the time anyway,” Liam wheedles.

“And I’m already one day away from killing you,” Mike says, sits down on the stairs beside Liam. Liam leans his head on Mike’s shoulder, and no amount of shrugging will make him get off.

The kid thinks he’s in love with him, but the season’s up in a couple weeks, and the offseason is a whole other thing. He’ll get over it, and Mike will get over him. Eventually.

Mike wraps his arm around Liam’s shoulder. “Not your boyfriend,” he reminds him.

“Says you,” Liam mutters, and Mike graciously ignores him. 

He turns his head, face pressed to Liam’s hair, gone fluffy because once again he didn’t dry off before he left the rink. “Let’s go inside,” he says, and when Liam reaches out, Mike helps him up.


End file.
